Time

Time

Please explain to me this calming feat
as I move towards my fate.
Why am I so unconcerned
for my death upon which I wait?

How can words flow with such ease
from the tip of my beloved pen?
How, when I fear the end is near,
can I still ask the question, "When?"

When will the lightning strike?
When will it all end for me?
When must I accept my fate
and move to where I cannot see?

I guess now is the time to go
as I soar up into the sky.
As I look down upon the shrinking ground,
it is time to say goodbye.